Vita passioque marcellini antonii enjolratis
by cillabub
Summary: The Life and Martyrdom of M. A. Enjolras.  Enjolras manages to dissect, rationalize, and mold a twenty five year long life into a lengthy series of vignettes, perhaps even discovering love and forgetting the existence of quotation marks along the way.
1. Preface

A/N: Let's start from what people really want to know: yeah, there's slash, mostly Enjolras/Combeferre, but aside from that, nothing more than you would find in canon. (Conversely, be ye also warned that some people are, gasp, straight. XD) These characters don't belong to me, clearly. This is not intended as an AU, since I have made any and all possible attempts to keep events from contradicting canon, although much has been added on to and slipped between canon events and characters, obviously. I would be pleased to hear feedback, but if you don't comment, I won't come kill you in your sleep, you can rest assured—and don't comment just to say, 'Eep, where'd the quotation marks go?' or 'What does "je t'aime" mean?' (The latter is the reason why they invented the internet—Google can answer your questions much faster than I can, my friends.) After all, I really did try not to use too much elitist Latin (or French, for that matter). I tried, really I did. But they don't call it the Latin Quarter for nothing. And besides, coming up with a declension for Enjolras's name for the title was just too much fun (I decided that it sounds best as a third declension, by the way, in case you're interested—enjolras, enjolratis, enjolrati, enjolratem, etc. XD). And since I am a responsible author, and since I very much like French and Latin in Les Mis fanfics but rather dislike the idea of authorial snobbery, I'll gloss the foreign-ness for anyone who's curious (dear God, fanfics with glossaries, what will they think of next?):

_Mamour_: Courfeyrac's preferred choice of condescending nicknames—it's really just literally an abbreviation of "mon amour," popping up from time to time in Molière and such. Likewise, Combeferre's more neutral equivalent, _mami_, is an abbreviation of "mon ami."

_Mon vieux_: another Courfeyrac favorite, but I believe he actually uses this one in the book, and if he doesn't, he should have. So there, V. Hugo. XD It means "old man," in the British sense, as in "buddy" or "homie," or whatever you prefer—a common address between male friends, even in modern French.

_Mon cher_: "my dear."

_Miserere nobis_: Church Latin for "Have mercy on us."

_Oh là_: a strange little interjection, an expression of dismay, difficult to translate. Perhaps equivalent to something like "Whoa," "Uh oh," "Oh no," etc.

_Parbleu_: "By Heaven!" Interjection. Nothing too special there...it just sounds less cheesy than _sacré bleu_.

_Pardieu_: Similar to _parbleu_, except it's "By God."

_Ma foi_: an exclamation without a real literal sense, but meaning, "Faith!" in the Shakespearean sense.

_Grisettes_: "the grey ladies." The lump name conceived specifically for seamstresses, because of the grey dresses they apparently tended to wear in Les Mis days. They are nearly their own archetype in 19th century literature, often showing up (even in Les Mis, I believe—see the part when Fantine is with Tholomyès) as the mistresses of students.

_Je t'aime_: I should not have to gloss this, but I will because I'm anal. "I love you," of course. As a historical aside, it should probably have been _Je vous aime_ instead, since that tended to be the way lovers addressed each other in rather antiquated French; however, that rule is probably antiquated even by the Les Mis time period, and besides which, Combeferre and Enjolras always address each other as "tu" in the book (all the students do, if I recall correctly), so I stuck with that.

_Te amo_: The Latin equivalent of _Je t'aime_. Simply put, _Te amabam_ is the past tense version of _Te amo_, and _Te amabo_ is the future tense version.

_Puerum flavum_: Latin for "blond boy," in the accusative case, as Combeferre so delicately points out in retrospect.

_Salaud_: I believe this is in there somewhere, probably just because I like it as a word. It just means "bastard," basically, and sounds lovely when French people spit it out. Almost as musical a word as _putain_ is. XD


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I won't footnote all the liturgical holidays in this thing, but it's useful to know that Candlemas, Enjolras's birthday, is February 2.

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I am five foot ten inches in height, one hundred sixty pounds in weight, fair in complexion, blue eyes—a gift from my mother—and blond hair. I am twenty-five years old. As things stand at this very instant, I am staring down the barrels of half a dozen rifles. In the next instant, I will be dead.

Having said as much, let me start where it is pertinent to start. You needn't know my birthplace, only that some time later I came to live outside of Lyon with my cousin's family on their vast lands. They were large-scale swine-herders by profession—a time-honored family business, that—and made a good living of it, to my knowledge. My cousin was an only child, featuring his father's crooked nose, his grandfather's strong chin, and his mother's shapely limbs. He was a couple of years older than I, from which one assumes that I learned all sorts of useful things about women from him, but assuredly all I ever learned from him was how to attract them, which was something I did very well, very effortlessly, indeed very unwillingly, after the age of twelve or so. He worked so very hard at it himself that I, abandoned child that I was, couldn't help but feel proud sometimes of my inherent abilities.

One autumn day when I was nine, he cornered me in the downstairs parlor and said, _Holà_ there, what's it you've got? Nothing of yours, I said. It's something Mother sent me last Michaelmas. Wha's that, a bottle of mother's milk, hm? he laughed. You're just a baby still, _mamour_. Shut it, de Courfeyrac, I said, but he took a step forward, eyes sparkling black now with curiosity. Wha's it? he repeated, and I retreated to a redoubt between the divan and the window. Nothing, I said again. Just an embroidery. He squinted at it as I held it up for him to see. _Je t'aime/1816_, he read the neat lettering sewn into the border. Hum, that's boring, says he, and leaves as promptly as he'd arrived. I stared into the blackened mouth of the fireplace; it wasn't really from Mother, of course, the cloth, that is. I'd bought it off an old gypsy hag on the corner of the town square, had chosen it with a child's careful deliberation from among about twenty nearly-identical specimens. As if Mother would have sent anything to me that said _Je t'aime_.

By February of the following year, I had amassed thirty-three embroideries, pinned to my walls like butterflies under glass, and on Candlemas, there appeared on the steps of the main house an inexplicable package, unmarked save for the words BLOND BOY scrawled in rudimentary Latin. By a fortuitous stroke of luck, I came upon it before Renault did, and since the de Courfeyracs were a wholly dark-haired clan, I took the liberty of opening it. As I tore the wrapping, a white strip of cloth slithered from my hands to the floorboards of my room. It read just like the others, save for the year, which was now 1817—_Je t'aime/1817_—needlework in the same hand, too stiffly neat to be sincere. There was no note.

On the same day, I saw my shadow, and winter would continue for another six weeks.

The ides of March came and went.

On 16 March, the neighbor boy came to see me. He was four years and sixty-three days older than I, and he had very chaotic hair and very tidy habits. He smiled when he met me, he smiled when I asked him to take supper with us, he smiled when he was obliged to politely decline, and he smiled still as he surreptitiously pressed a note into my palm when we shook hands under the hawk eyes of my aunt. Before she could scold me for not insisting upon supper with our guest, I had escaped to the relative safety of the family chapel, whose threshold I knew no de Courfeyrac would ever dare to cross for fear of lightning-strike. Kneeling before the terracotta eyes of St. Martin in the alcove to the right of the altar, I unfolded the paper clenched in my fist and read in a scrawling script, _please meet me by the gypsy's stall in the hour when sunset dies. your servant, sir. É. J. Combeferre._ Nothing more.

When I saw his small frame leaning against the stall like somebody's abandoned umbrella, silhouetted in the brown of a dried sunset, I wanted to shout out to him, to fill the square with my voice until my lungs bled. He turned before I spoke, and smiled. For shame, he said mildly. You've gone and left the house without a coat. _Je t'aime/1817_, I said breathlessly. That was you, on Candlemas, your handwriting on the wrapping. His smile faltered, and he said, Do you mind it? No, says I, Candlemas is my birth date…I liked it very much. He was silent, and finally repeated softly, mechanically, _Je t'aime/1817_. And when 1818 comes? I asked, cocking my head to one side. I'll be gone, he replied. It will be my fifteenth year, and I'll be sent to Paris for my schooling. He held very still, his breath catching in the thickness of the gathering gloom, then: May I write you from Paris? Write me, says I, rather shocked. Who am I to tell you that you may not? The set of his small mouth was puzzled as he regarded me in silence. Finally he said, How old are you? Ten years, I replied. I'll wait forever, he said. I wasn't sure to what he was referring, so I just nodded, and he turned to go. Suddenly, he turned again and grabbed me by the hand and said, Don't forget me. I nodded again, and he slipped into the darkness, leaving behind only a vague tingling feeling where he'd gripped my hand and a slight scent of sandalwood and the ghostly shadow of a smile shimmering in the air where he'd left it.

It would be six years before I would see him again, but on the day before Candlemas of 1818, I received an unsigned letter that read simply _Je t'aime/1818_. My aunt complained about the postage and effort wasted on such a worthless scrap of badly scrawled tripe, but I kept it in my pocket until supper had ended and ran upstairs to pin it to my wall beside the white cloth reading _Je t'aime/1817_. I contemplated it and wept, but whether for joy or for loneliness, I know not.

On Shrove Tuesday of 1818 my parents fetched me home with all haste for my sister's marriage, and de Courfeyrac walked with me to the carriage station in Lyon. Who's the groom, he asked, semi-rhetorically, who would have _your_ sister to wife? Don't know, I said, but he must be desperate. He laughed crisply, probably remembering well how she had twisted his ear near off last time he had visited my family. (He had tried to look up her skirts at a ball, but she wasn't quite as willowy a girl as she seemed and had given him a stiff beating in front of his friends. It's never worn off and I think he'll resent her when he's fifty.) Enjolras, step on her train for me, will you? he said, and I nodded dutifully. I'd be happy to. When I'm grown, I said, I won't let any girl box my ears like that. You're never to marry then, he advised me solemnly. All right, I said.

_Je t'aime/1819_. The letter arrived right on time, and I crucified it to the wall beside its yellowed fellow from the previous year. I was twelve that day, and I slept fitfully, feeling his hands on mine, his smile, my own fingers in his wild hair, and always waking unsure of whether I'd been dreaming or not.

_Je t'aime/1820._

On Mayday of 1820, a young girl with poppies braided into her hair begged me to dance, but I ran from her. I heard later that de Courfeyrac pinned her to the haystack in the dying light of the evening bonfires, and I thought, Well, it's just as well.

Martinmas, being the feast dedicated to the de Courfeyracs' patron saint, was a true holiday in the household. De Courfeyrac took me to see the cockfights in the square, beside the gypsy's stall, and I could have sworn I smelled sandalwood on the chilly breeze, but de Courfeyrac bought me a rope of licorice and that smell chased away any others that may have lingered in my nostrils. Wha's that look in your eyes? he asked as I bit into it. The look in my eyes, or the thought in my head? I shot back. I'd say you were thinking of somebody, he said slyly. What's her name? I wasn't thinking of anybody, I said. Enjolras, I won't tell, he said, chewing matter-of-factly on his fingernails and glancing slantways at me. My fiancé, I said. Your what? he said. Nothing, I said. That's what I thought you said, he murmured.

_Je t'aime/1821_.

1 December 1821

Am nineteen today, _mon cher_. Am yet undecided as to my future, but would like to help people, so Jehan says I am to be a poet and Julie says I am to be a doctor. She looks after me here, and says I shall marry her some day, but I do not think that will be my future. Awaiting your arrival in March with something akin to terror, but am excited. Will write again nearer to the holidays.

Your servant, sir.

É. J. Combeferre

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: 1824: Galette des rois is a nasty little cake, pure butter, that's sold around the feast of the Epiphany, that is, in early January. It's got a little trinket of some sort baked into it, and whoever gets the piece with the trinket in it becomes king for the day, and there's this dopey little paper crown you have to wear and all. It's awfully cute, so long as you aren't the one who has to wear it. The Archbishop of Rheims, from the 800s through the Revolution, was usually the archbishop who anointed and crowned the kings of France, and thus acquired the nickname of "king-maker."

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_Je t'aime/1822_.

I arrived in Paris in the thick fog of a March rainshower on Maundy Thursday. With Easter only three days away, there had been more than one cleric in my carriage, and I had heard so much about the parishioners of God-Knows-Where-sur-Mer that I was prepared to flee at the carriage station with or without my earthly possessions, just so long as I escaped. I bit the inside of my cheek as I waited for the porters to bring my baggage and reflected that I should have had Courfeyrac meet me at the station after all, since I could remember the name of his street but not the building's number. I could ask the porter for directions to the address scrawled on the outside of the envelope that I was fingering restlessly in my pocket, but I wasn't sure that I wanted to see Combeferre yet. _Holà_, Enjolras, I heard someone say behind me and, with barely suppressed relief welling up behind my eyes, I recognized Courfeyrac's face. He hugged me tightly when he'd fought his way through a knot of errand-boys who'd come to fetch the priests from my carriage. What are you doing here? I asked, in what I hoped was a terribly self-assured voice. I forgot that I never gave you the address for my new flat, he said sheepishly, stuffing his hands in his pockets only to pull them quickly out a moment later to help the porter who'd just appeared with my trunks. I nodded, lost in my thoughts. Oh, he said as he hoisted one of my trunks into a cab, by the way, _mamour_, you'll never guess who I met the other day after classes. I shrugged, and he smirked with self-importance. Combeferre, he said. You remember him, our old neighbor? And the strangest thing was that he asked after _you_, your health, your happiness, and so forth. Courfeyrac must have noticed the sharp way that I'd looked up at that name, because he gave an odd little laugh at my expression. I suppose you do remember, says he. Has he been writing you, or something? His face changed suddenly, minutely, his mouth drawing slightly at the corners, as he seemed to remember something himself. Is he the one who's been writing you all these years? he asked, and his voice wasn't pleasant. I climbed up into the cab without answering, and he climbed up beside me, staring intently. Enjolras? he said finally, still waiting for a response. Give the address to the driver, I said softly. He made as if he would say something to me, but instead thrust his head out the window and bellowed out the street and number to the driver. Settling back inside as the cab began to move, he stared silently for a moment at his hands. Enjolras, why can't you ever give me a straightforward answer? he said, more to himself than to me. I said nothing in response, and he added, I won't tell Mother, if that's what you're thinking. She already knows, probably, I said with a small shrug. She has spies everywhere in the house. Why didn't you tell me? he asked, and much to my surprise, he began to laugh. Do you know that all these years, I thought it was some girl writing to you? You never told me anything that would have given me reason to think otherwise. It's not your business, I said unkindly. The letters were to me, weren't they? I failed to dampen his spirits, though, and he grinned as the cab turned a sharp corner and nearly left me sprawled on the floor. So you've no lady friend in Paris, then, he sighed, his eyes twinkling. But what of Combeferre, then? Hasn't he been patient enough, courting you for years like that? I didn't reply. Shouldn't you be setting a date for the wedding soon? he teased. When I said nothing still, only flushed, he smiled wickedly and added, No, you're right. Don't let's be hasty—you're still only a blushing child. Let me be, I said, and the coldness in my tone surprised even me.

I left off my visit to Combeferre for five weeks, but on 1 May, when the truant students and their _grisettes_ were packing picnic lunches and flocking to the outskirts of the city seeking the bucolic dream of Mayday, he appeared on the steps of my building as I was leaving for class. I didn't recognize him, but he caught me by the arm as I passed, and spun me about with such force that I dropped my books. What are you—! I said angrily as his hands slid down my arms and dug into my hands, but when I looked up and he was five inches from me, I smelled sandalwood and saw that his eyes were full of tears. It was then that I recognized him. Are you angry? I said when he would not—could not?—speak. I know I haven't come to see you, but I have been busy, and Courfeyrac isn't to blame, he's given me your messages, but I was involved in class enrollment, and then I had to pay visits to Father's old professor friends and give them his regards, and Courfeyrac hasn't given me a moment's peace, he's made me afraid to see you, telling me how different you are, and I know how different _I_ am, I never thought you'd recognize me, even— He interrupted me, his voice sounding choked: I'm not angry. I waited for him to say more, but he was trembling so violently that he had to sit on the stoop of the building, and I heard his breaths short and sharp as he turned his face from me. It embarrassed me to see him crying right there on the street, and I bent to collect my books from the ground, wishing that he would just go away again and write me eloquently formal letters from far beyond, where I'd never have to look him in the eye.

When I turned to leave him there, I suddenly heard him say my name, and it was as though I had been stabbed through the heart. Childish ungrateful monster! I thought. I told you that I'd wait forever, he said softly to my back. Then, as I scrubbed at my eyes with my sleeve, I felt his awkward smile as he said suddenly, Can I buy you breakfast? I forgot to tell him that I had class, indeed I forgot that I had class, and nodded.

On Candlemas of 1823, I left my room to find him waiting in the stairwell, his hair, usually subdued by a bit of ribbon, left free to spiral around his face in mad waves as he paced back and forth. Today's Candlemas, I said. Are you going to Mass? No, he said. I was looking for you. And before I could tell him no, he had caught me in his arms. Happy birthday, he said, his voice muffled thickly in my hair. Thank you, I replied. I haven't got an embroidery for you this year, or even a letter, he said as we separated. It would be _Je t'aime/1823_ this year, wouldn't it? I said. He didn't answer, and I said, Well, why don't you say it instead? He gave a start, and smiled slowly. I didn't think you would accept that, says he. Why not? I shrugged. It's as good as the others, I should think, except that I can't pin it on my wall with them. _Je t'aime_, he said. No, that's not right, I objected. You're supposed to add the year. _Je t'aime/1823_, he said with a broad smile. Stop teasing me, I scolded him. You're terrible—as bad as Courfeyrac. I'm not that bad, he insisted. And I'm not teasing you, Enjolras. Shall I kiss you to prove myself? I looked at him blankly, and replied, No, I don't think you should. I'm sixteen now, a man, and I can't have that kind of indiscretion. He ignored me, took my chin in one hand, and leant forward, our mouths meeting in between my next No and his next smile.

_Je t'aime/1824_.

Eh oh! said Prouvaire as he cut the galette des rois into thick slices. Thank the gods the feast of the Epiphany only comes once a year. Why's that? said Combeferre, then added, Careful, you'll cut your finger off. I won't, said Prouvaire as he finished his slicing with a little flourish of the knife. And I say it's good for once a year because any more than that, and the children would get spoilt with all these little cakes and gifts. Any more than that, and the Church would have some dogmatic explaining to do, I said. One can't have the Savior being born more than once a year. Have some galette, said Combeferre, smiling implacably. It'll make you think less, _mon cher_. Are we going to Mass this evening? Prouvaire asked. Combeferre and I have already gone, earlier this week, I replied before taking a bite of galette. Would it kill us to go again? said Combeferre. If you go to that church any more often than you already do, they're going to begin charging you rent on your pew, I said. Hush, said Combeferre, and he heaved a pitiful sigh. If only the Revolution hadn't made us all of the opinion that faith is nothing more than an evil, and an evil unfortunately difficult to eradicate, at that. It's not faith that bothers us, _mami_, said Prouvaire. It's the Church. And yet, you're still here, you pagans, celebrating the Epiphany of the Lord's birth, said Combeferre, licking his fork with great satisfaction. Pagans, who said anything about pagans? I said hotly. I went to Mass with you, didn't I? Your eyes were open the whole time, but you were sleeping inside, said Combeferre with a little smile. You can make me go to Mass, you can even induce me to recite the Credo, I replied, but you can't make me believe what some old man in a dress tells me about some even older man living up in the sky, watching us with some kind of sadistic voyeurism. If that's God, I'm at a loss. It's not a dress, Combeferre mumbled resentfully. Oh, it's not worth it to argue about it, said timid Prouvaire. Besides which, I've found the prize in the galette. _Ah là_, said Combeferre. That means you're king for the day, I said. You'll have to wear that ridiculous crown and everything. Who'll crown me? I'd like to be crowned as King of the Franks, said Prouvaire with a laugh. I'll do the honors, said Combeferre. If he's King of the Franks, then that would make you the Archbishop of Rheims, the king-maker, I said. I accept the tonsure and the crosier, but only if our poor apartment can be transformed into the cathedral of Rheims, Combeferre laughed. Get on with it and crown me, priest, said Prouvaire with an imperious gesture. He's already acting like a true king, I said. You'd best crown him quickly and be done with it, or I'll be forced to resurrect a Saint-Just to deal with him. Just a moment, said Combeferre, busy folding the paper crown into the proper form. He climbed up onto the rickety chair, saying, _Eh voilà_! as he found his balance, and said, Approach, Your Majesty. Hurry up with the formalities, said Prouvaire haughtily, so that I can get on with being rich and powerful and beloved by all. Sanctus, sanctus, chanted Combeferre in monotone, and he arranged the crown on Prouvaire's head, then added, Hum, it rather suits him. Vivat! vivat! I said, rising from my chair with a grandiose sweep of my hand. Vivat! Combeferre chanted, A hundred times Vivat! Prouvaire blushed.

My parents commanded my return for the Christmastide holidays of 1824, but I sent them a very politely worded refusal. Then Courfeyrac told me that I should spend the holidays with him, as he was staying on in Paris; little did I know when I accepted that what he had in mind was a series of destructively wild parties. At one particular gathering, the day after Christmas, I was crushed with Combeferre against the window in Courfeyrac's packed apartment when someone hailed my companion through the crowd. Julie, he said as the girl approached. I never thought Courfeyrac knew you. He knew that you knew me, she replied laughingly. Enjolras, let me introduce Marie-Juliette Lesalles, he said. Then this is your little lover, Étienne, she said, glancing at me as one might examine a prize poodle. He's beautiful, she added, giving my friend her most winning smile. Combeferre just smiled, but his eyes were anxious, watching first me, then her, before he finally said, Begging your pardon, Julie, but Enjolras and I were just about to go. I wanted to stop him, to grab her by the hair, to do _something_ to make sure that it was understood that she didn't frighten me. But she clearly frightened him, so I allowed him to make his apologies to a tipsy Courfeyrac and lead me from the room.

When we arrived back at my flat, I said, Why did her presence upset you? I thought you were friends. If the only thing harder than passing a camel through the eye of a needle is getting a wealthy man into heaven, then a close second must be sustaining a nonsexual friendship between a man and a woman, he said quietly, adjusting his spectacles. If she had had her way, we would have been lovers. I bit my lip and asked what I didn't want to know: Were you? No, he said. I told her about you, as I told Jehan—that I loved you, that I had since we were children, that I had written to you for years—and she thought I was quite mad, to put it mildly. His mouth quirked and he added, I suppose it must seem a bit odd to someone who wasn't there, but how am I to explain my situation to someone who has never felt what I felt every time I saw you buying embroideries, week after week, at that gypsy's stall? Someone who's never waited hours, perched perfectly still, just to catch a glimpse of the beloved as he passes by, even if he doesn't know they exist? Jehan could understand those things, he has a poet's sensibilities, and he's done many of the same things before to catch the attention of someone who'd ensnared him. But Julie only saw me, and she must have thought what a waste those years were, when both she and I were alone here in Paris. He fell silent, and I said, Do you want to come in? We'd been standing in the hall beside my door for some time, and it could get quite drafty in winter. All right, he said, but I shouldn't stay. Why not? I said. It's my saint's day, he replied. (It was indeed; I had forgotten that the Feast of Saint Étienne fell on 26 December.) I usually hold vigil on the night of the 26th, he added. But it's already the 27th, I said. He dug his watch from his fob and sighed when he saw the time, saying, I suppose you're right. I took his hand and unlocked my door.

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	4. Chapter 4

A/N: 1825: The church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés is located in the sixth arrondissement, and is all that's left of a medieval monastery damaged by Viking raids in the 800s and finally destroyed for good in the Revolution. It's perhaps not nearly as ugly as Enjolras seems to find it, but maybe we can't blame him after all—the church wasn't renovated from the damage it sustained during the Revolution until after Enjolras's lifetime. 1828: Grégoire de Tours is the author of _History of the Franks_, the most important historical text surviving from the 500s, and, incidentally, Combeferre, Prouvaire, and Enjolras are all idiots, because Grégoire de Tours wrote in an absolutely deplorable Latin, and it should not be altogether surprising to encounter words in the wrong cases and the wrong spellings in his work. _Cromwell_ was a play published by Victor Hugo in 1828 that wasn't actually performed at the time but nevertheless sparked debates among literary types due to its preface, in which Hugo argued for Romanticism against the classical French theatre style.

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_Je t'aime/1825._

The church of St-Germain-des-Prés was silent, save for the quiet padding of the verger's slippers as he moved back and forth from the sacristy to the altar, arranging the decorations for the next day's Pentecost Mass. I was alone in the nave, on my knees, with my hands folded on the back of the chair in front of me and my forehead leaning against them. The church was dark that morning, a dark little squat monstrosity of Romanesque proportions, propped up on Carolingian legs, its walls painted like the wrinkled, chipping face of an aging whore. Combeferre adored that church. It horrified me, that darkness, those abused walls, battered by generations of invaders, and that anger shivering in the air, floating on the oily smoke from the lamps, that righteous fury of a sacred shrine raped, pillaged, splattered with the blood of her servants too many times to count. To this church, a bloodthirsty Viking was just the same as a bloodthirsty sans-culotte—both were agents of the Enemy. To this church, I was the Enemy. I had tried to explain it to Combeferre, tried to expose the church's hate for me, the church's violent anti-Republicanism, its raging desire for revenge. Combeferre just smiled at it, and called it a schoolboy's fancy. A schoolboy's fancy. Just like that. Well, no matter—Saint Germain and I knew where we stood with each other.

I glanced up when the verger shuffled by again, and realized that I had been gripping the back of the chair in front of me, my knuckles growing white. I stretched my trembling fingers, then laced them together again. I often wondered at Combeferre, at his piety. As far as I was concerned, St-Germain-des-Prés was the very symbol of why religion and the Republic do not mix. But Combeferre had never been of my opinion, and I couldn't help but think it beautiful to see him on his knees before the tomb of Sainte Geneviève at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, spotted with the red and green lights of the stained-glass windows, his lips moving silently as his fingers caressed his rosary beads. He was a funny sort of man sometimes, Combeferre was—a Lyonnais with a strong mountain accent and a very Parisian politeness, a scholar of the rationalist school and a zealous devotee of saints. In short, a man of strong convictions and strong contradictions. I could swear sometimes that I loved him.

The verger was watching me when I glanced up, and when I met his gaze, he said simply, The saint will hear your prayers, young man.

The very thought that Germain could hear my thoughts struck terror into my heart, but I just nodded mutely in response. When the verger had gone into the sacristy, I stood and walked as steadily as I could on stiff legs, back through the nave to the front doors.

Germain, I whispered to the saint as I hesitated at the threshold, _Miserere nobis_.

_Je t'aime/1826._ The words were carved painstakingly into the wall beside our door, and I had to look twice before I noticed them at all. As distracted as I'd been lately, I had nearly forgotten that my own birthday was the next day; it didn't make sense to be celebrating when my cousin was behind bars, a dark drunken stranger had taken to following me ten steps behind, and I was drowning in a struggle to find a place for myself in the universe. Courfeyrac's questioning had been intense, but we knew as well as the inspector did that there was very little evidence against him, save a shopkeeper who claimed to have seen Courfeyrac passing out pamphlets near the Luxembourg, and ultimately, my cousin was sentenced to only a few days in prison. Combeferre had been taken in for questioning three months prior to this incident on similar charges, and I had nearly lost my mind then; he'd been released after two weeks of incarceration, half-naked and stripped of all emotion. I remember the fear that rose in my throat when I brought him home and he bade me go home and let him be, obviously having forgotten that I had lived there too since Michaelmas of 1825. Once I had impressed upon him that I _was_ home and that I wasn't leaving, he seemed to again assume his former soft temperament little by little, almost as though he had shed it like a coat that he hadn't want to dirty while in jail and was donning it again now with comparable ease. By the following morning, he was nearly himself and I was the one who was uncharacteristically disoriented. Courfeyrac's trial had brought back all these memories with distasteful clarity, but as I stared at the words carved into the wall, my heart thawed a bit. I love you, I replied to the scarred whitewash.

On Maundy Thursday of that same year, Les Amis de l'A B C officially declared itself a fraternity, united for better or for worse. The name had been born in a poem of Prouvaire's, nearly a year previous, and the group had gained momentum when Combeferre introduced me to his anatomy lab partner, a consumptive-apparent by the name of Joly, who in turn introduced us to his roommate, a man named Lesgle who was, it seemed, unfortunate enough to have a consumptive for a best friend. Besides these two odd fellows, there was Courfeyrac, who insisted that red was a very handsome color on him; Prouvaire, who lived in allegory anyway; a workingman—befriended by my cousin—who seemed to know no injustice in the world but that done to artisans and that done to Poland; Combeferre, who worked tirelessly on his treatise concerning the treatment of political prisoners and on his butterfly collections; and myself, elected chairman by default, as no one else wanted the responsibility of organizing meetings.

_Je t'aime/1827._

At some point in June of 1827, we were joined by a burly fellow who went by the name of Bahorel and of whom I knew very little, save that Courfeyrac knew him because they had been pitted against each other once in a barroom brawl.

The summer came on brutally that year, and by mid-July, it had become physically exhausting to walk the streets in full frock coat, not to mention the smell. We had ended up in the upper balcony of a rickety little alleyway theatre near Saint-Sulpice late one night in the first week of August, in a desperate attempt to distract ourselves from the heat, only to find that the temperature was about twice as high inside as it was outside. It was intermission, and Courfeyrac was hanging precariously over the edge of the balcony, whistling down at the daughters of the bourgeois seated below in the stalls, his frock coat abandoned and his collar thrown open. Combeferre removed his spectacles to wipe the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, and said mildly, He'll kill himself doing that, you know. One can only hope, I replied. This is really unbearable, said Lesgle, this heat. I feel as though I'm being cooked like an egg over an open flame. I love it, laughed Courfeyrac. Yes, because it gives you a semi-legitimate excuse to be in an inappropriate public state of undress, said Joly, who was wrapped up in his greatcoat seemingly without having really noticed any sort of heat at all. Yes, I love it, repeated Courfeyrac. No hat, no coat, no cravat—all it takes is a slight heat wave to send the formidable foundations of societal expectations crashing down. Why not take off the waistcoat too, while you're at it? said Combeferre with a touch of jealous prudishness, fidgeting miserably in his own frock coat. Splendid idea, said my cousin. I was kidding, said Combeferre flatly. I know, said Courfeyrac with a wink, and he added, Enjolras, you ought to at least loosen your cravat. Your face is all pink, you'll faint if you don't get some air, _mamour_. No need to concern yourself over me, I said. I'll survive. Go back to your bourgeois girls. Ha ha! said Lesgle, fanning himself with a Republican pamphlet. His bourgeois girls have never seen a half-naked man making faces at them from a theatre balcony before, I'll bet. It's scandalous, said Joly, sniffing. Scandalous, said Combeferre. Disgustingly scandalous, I said. Ha ha! said Courfeyrac, thoroughly amused.

On All Hallow's Eve, probably less than an hour before it melted into All Saints' Day, when we were alone in the back room of the Musain, the insufferable drunk who'd been stalking my shadow for months first spoke to me. He told me his name and, when I didn't respond in kind, he asked, Can I buy you a drink? No thank you, I said. Your name's Enjolras, isn't it? says he. Just so, I said. He laid an insistent hand on my thigh and I hit him full in the face. That was the end of the conversation, for all intents and purposes.

_Je t'aime/1828._

What are you doing? said Combeferre, frozen in the doorway of our flat. Close the door, please, I replied calmly. If the old lady sees all this, there's no telling what she might do. Her? And what about me? What d'you suppose I'll do? hissed Combeferre. Shut the door, I said, and my eyes were cold when I glanced up at him. He just stared back at me, until I rose to my feet and crossed the room, passing behind him and slamming the door. He grabbed me by the arm, and said, Enjolras, you're mad. That could be so, but you're the one sleeping with the madman, I replied, shrugging off his hand. An armory, said Combeferre, staring stupidly at the guns lined up on the floor with the little piles of powder and balls surrounding them. It's like I've come home to an armory. Welcome home, I replied, and settled back on the floor to continue cleaning the barrel of my carbine. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he whispered, crossing himself. You're going to get yourself killed. I didn't say anything, just scrubbed furiously at the rust on the lock of the carbine. He crossed the room as if in a trance, stepping carefully over the bayonets stacked beside his bed, and collapsed onto the mattress with a little noise, perhaps a little murmured _Oh là_, watching me work with something near despair. After a few moments of feeling his gaze on me and hearing his soft _Oh là_, _oh là_ over and over, I glanced up and said, Combeferre, you don't have to stay and watch me work if it's troubling for you. Troubling? he replied weakly. Enjolras, what _is_ all this? Did you plan on building your better world on foundations of sand, or on a rock, Simon Peter? I said, returning to my work. There can be no happiness without passing through suffering first, and every Republic must be fought for. I didn't plan on building my better world on a barricade, he said with a sad sort of tenderness. That is where we differ, then, I said. It seems so, he replied. A moment, and then he added, You're really going to kill people with those? If need be, I said sternly, I will kill some men in order to free mankind. Then you are no better than they are, he said. I stopped cleaning and looked at him. There were silent tears rolling off his chin, soaking into his cravat. I think it would be better if you went to Prouvaire's for a few hours, I murmured. Me too, he said very calmly. Once the door had closed behind him with a soft click, I let out the breath I'd been holding and glanced down at the carbine. God, I said, and stood slowly, crossing the room and sinking to the floor with my back against the door. The only sound to break the silence was the muffled gasps in his breathing as he cried in the corridor.

In April Courfeyrac received a letter stating that his family intended to sell the estate outside Lyon and asking whether he wanted to come sort through his things and salvage anything he didn't want to be disposed of or placed in storage. He invited me along, since I too had a room there that needed to be cleaned out.

Walking into my room, though, was jumping into a massive sea without the means of swimming. So much had been interred here that I'd never thought to have to dig up, but it became apparent upon really looking around the room that little of the excavation had been left for me to do. On my desk, a vase that should have contained the dust of decade-old daisies had been recently cleaned and filled with fresh poppies. A mirror that Courfeyrac had cracked when we were children had been replaced with a startling new one; it was hung immediately across from the door, and I think my heart nearly stopped when I opened the door to confront myself. The slightly discolored rectangles on the walls were all that remained of my grand tapestries and their manuscript counterparts, which had traveled to Paris in the bottom of one of my trunks six years ago. Without them there to preside over everything, the room ceased to be mine and the items inhabiting the room, which had seemed important links to my childhood, were reduced to sundry trinkets and useless junk. I stared into the void for a few moments, then finally shut the door again without having taken a step inside. Courfeyrac, I called towards his room, which was down the hall. Hush, don't call me that while we're here, he hissed, his head appearing from within his room. They'll hear you. All right, _de _Courfeyrac, I said stiffly, I'm done here. There's nothing more for me to see. But we just got here, _mamour_, he said. Why did you come all the way out here if you knew it was pointless? There never was anything for me to see here, I said, but there was never any harm in looking, just in case.

The feast of the Magdalene was a windy Friday that year, and we spent most of the day holed up in the second-floor room of Corinthe, listening to the wind whine through the cracks in the dirty windowpane. I was in the process of deciphering the devilishly complex Latin syntax in the second subheading of the fourth chapter of the sixth-century chronicle I was reading, just when Courfeyrac pushed his chair back from the table with a noise rather like a Hup! and said, Has anyone got a cigarette I can borrow? Only if you return it unharmed, said Bahorel from the corner table. I don't think I can promise that, _mon vieux_, said Courfeyrac with a laugh. _Sancto_ shouldn't be in that case, that makes precious little sense, I mused aloud to myself. What are you reading? said Prouvaire, coming over to read over my shoulder. Grégoire de Tours, I said. But this _sancto_ is absolutely rotten grammar on his part, I should say. You dare to tell Grégoire de Tours what is correct Latin and what isn't? Combeferre teased. The man was practically a native speaker. Nobody's got a cigarette, honestly? said Courfeyrac, a little desperate. Perhaps it's a scribal error, said Prouvaire to me, tracing the sentence with one long white finger. Could be, added Combeferre. Here, said Lesgle to my cousin, tossing him a cigarette. You owe me now. As I recall, you already owed me from last week, remember? said Courfeyrac. No, I don't remember, said Lesgle. You didn't give me any cigarettes last week. But I bought you a girl, said Courfeyrac. A girl is a girl, and a cigarette is a cigarette, replied Lesgle matter-of-factly. I owe you a girl, and you owe me a cigarette. Fair enough, said Courfeyrac, taking a long, satisfied drag on the cigarette. Do you have to talk about buying and selling and trading girls? said Combeferre with a vague frown. Ah, don't worry about it, _mon vieux_, said Courfeyrac, waving his hand dismissively. I do worry about it, _mami_, said Combeferre. That girl was somebody's daughter, or somebody's sister, or perhaps even a wife, before she became what she is. To be sure, to be sure, said Courfeyrac, more gently this time. Don't let it get to you. Combeferre was silent for a moment, and finally, folding his newspaper into quarters with careful deliberation, he said, It's really our fault, through and through, you know. Not yours alone, I mean—well, men in general. How's that? said Joly, huddling more deeply in the folds of his greatcoat with a little shiver. (Honestly, the only man I ever knew who could be perfectly comfortable in a greatcoat in the worst days of summer.) He added, I never touch those girls, so how is it that it's my— You know why those girls are out there standing on the street corner, don't you? interrupted Combeferre. It's because they haven't anyone to provide for them, and they can't provide for themselves except by the sale of flesh, because they don't know how to do anything else. And whose fault is that? How can it be anyone's but ours, _mami_, yours and mine. If education were open to women, it would be a different world. Women aren't fit to be educated, said Bahorel. What, then, are they suited for? said Combeferre, turning on him. To be fucked, said Bahorel, of course. Combeferre made a violent sort of movement, and I grabbed him by the arm. Courfeyrac jumped up, waving his hands, and said, Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, there's no need. There is need! said Combeferre angrily, gesturing broadly with his newspaper. I'm speaking of important issues, of the abysmal servitude that one-half of the human race is being subjected to daily by the other half of the human race, and this _salaud_ is simply proud to be among the oppressors. All sorts of people are oppressed on a daily basis all over the globe, said Bahorel fiercely. The poor, the Protestants, the Breton peasantry, the Negroes in America, the North Africans in the colonies—when we've enough energy to have freed all of them from their chains, to have brought education and enlightened culture to each and every one of them, then we can begin worrying about the women. He stood from his table, shaking his head, and growled, You're a hopeless naïf, Combeferre. The women have it better than any of those others, believe you me. He wandered over to the billiards table, and took up the eights ball, examining it for a moment before adding, Besides which, simply because you don't like to fuck women doesn't mean they aren't very pleasant to fuck. That's outside of the question, said Combeferre in a cold voice, and he adjusted his spectacles self-consciously. My point is that women are more than objects—they are human beings, simply human beings, just the same as us, gifted with the same abilities and cursed with the same faults. It's not called the Rights of _Man_ and the _Citoyen_ for nothing, said Bahorel. But who stormed Versailles and brought the royal family back to Paris? said Combeferre. Who instigated bread riots and incited their men to tear down the foundations of tyranny? The Constitution of '93 would have given schooling to both sexes on equal footing, if Robespierre had had his way, I said. Oh, your Robespierre! exclaimed Bahorel, exasperated. He was as little aroused by women as your Combeferre here! And your libidinous Danton? I said stiffly. Is he cut more out of a pattern that suits you? Gentlemen, you are terribly dull today, said Courfeyrac, rolling his eyes. Can't we please talk about something interesting, instead of the same old? Like what? said Combeferre tiredly. Like the latest fashions in waistcoat patterns, like the new trends in court wastefulness, like the most passionate operas written lately, like M. Hugo's _Cromwell_, like any number of very vapid, very safe subjects, replied Courfeyrac. I wouldn't number _Cromwell_ among your safe subjects, said Prouvaire with a half-smile. Or your vapid ones, for that matter, I said. You find M. Hugo's work pleasing, then? said Courfeyrac, jumping on the opportunity to change the topic of conversation. He's no Racine, I said, but he's got slightly better politics, at the least. Always politics with you, Enjolras, my cousin complained. What about the art, _mamour_—doesn't that count for something? His verses could use some polishing, I said under my breath.

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	5. Chapter 5

A/N: 1829: The date given as the date of the Friends' break-up, 9 Thermidor, is the date of Robespierre's fall in 1794. The Panthéon, located in the fifth arrondissement, is the location of Victor Hugo's tomb as well as those of many famous French politicians, authors, philosophers, etc. Necker Hospital still exists, in the fifteenth arrondissement, and is a hospital especially dedicated to caring for children, but I have no clue whether or not it's really a hospice (some translations of Les Mis indicate "hospice," but the original French just says "hospital," so I don't know). De Polignac was the prime minister under Charles X's government—a rather hated man of the time period. _Puerum flavum_ is indeed the wrong case, so Combeferre's not being a complete Latin moron, only a big nerd. 1830: The July Revolution, of course.

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_Je t'aime/1829._

It was just after Candlemas that the trouble began, and I can say now, in retrospect, that from the very start it was altogether the fault of the typographer. I'm not certain, even now, what exactly a typographer does, or how it works, but I know that, if prompted, Combeferre could probably still recite every nut and bolt in the wretched machine, and what function each performs. And that in itself was the root of the trouble.

I was sitting at my usual corner table in the back room of the Musain when Combeferre burst in early one evening. Hullo, I said, glancing up from my newspaper. Hallo! he said abruptly, threw himself into a chair at the table next to mine, and began spreading papers out over his table with hands trembling with excitement. What's going on? I said, watching him work. Nothing, he said, even as he pulled out a book from his greatcoat pocket and began flipping through the pages. Nothing? I said. A very exciting nothing? Oh, yes, he said exuberantly, but added in a more off-handed tone, Well, nothing that would interest you, though. How do you mean? I said. Hush, please, he said, I'm trying to concentrate. All right, I replied, annoyed, and I returned to my newspaper. After several minutes of hearing him shuffle around from behind my newspaper, I finally had to glance at him again, from over the edge of the paper. What is it? I said. He laughed, softly, and said, The typographer. Typographer? I said. What's that? It's just newly invented, he said, still buried in his little book. The door to the room slammed open suddenly, and Courfeyrac maneuvered his way inside, bearing a stack of pamphlets in both arms. Some help, gentlemen? he grunted, and I went to his aid. Ah, thanks, he said, sinking into the nearest chair. They're for the meeting with our esteemed Barrière du Maine colleagues, tomorrow. Oh, that's fantastic, I said, genuinely surprised. I really almost forgot that you were capable of actually getting something done when you put your mind to it, Courfeyrac. Best compliment a fellow could get from his snot-nosed little cousin, Courfeyrac said, shaking his head. He glanced at Combeferre, who was utterly absorbed and seemingly unaware of our presence. What's wrong with him? my cousin said. He's come across some new discovery or other, I said, and he hasn't time for us ordinary non-Académie-Française types. That's a shame, said Courfeyrac. I suppose it's just you and me today, _mamour_, just like the old days. I suppose so, I replied. Combeferre didn't answer, too engrossed in his papers.

A week later, we were all in the Corinthe, partly focused on our meeting, partly following an unhurried game of billiards. His Royal Majesty'll be awfully surprised when it all comes to a head, said Lesgle, taking careful aim with his cue. He'll swear later that he never saw it coming. They always do, said Courfeyrac, then added, That was a terrible shot, _mon vieux_, I must say. Because you were distracting me, replied Lesgle. Are you coming to that lecture with me tomorrow? Prouvaire was saying to Combeferre. Can't, said Combeferre. Take your turn, won't you? said Lesgle impatiently. It's not mine, it's Joly's, said Courfeyrac. I'm not playing at the moment, said Joly from the corner table. See there, it's your turn, said Lesgle to Courfeyrac. But I thought you were coming with me, said Prouvaire. Forgive me, but I have an engagement, said Combeferre guiltily, adding, I'll make it up to you at next week's lecture, no? What sort of engagement do you have? I said nonchalantly. Nothing to worry about, said Combeferre. I'll be back in time for supper. Oh? I said. So it's nothing like the engagement that kept you out all night four days ago. Eh oh, said Courfeyrac carefully, with a cringe. Combeferre glanced up at me with a curiously hard expression, and said, What do you mean, saying it like that? I already told you that I was having a discussion with a professor, and it ended by running quite long. _Oh là_, said Bahorel. And what do _you_ have to say about it? said Combeferre to him, with that same hardness along the edge of his voice. Nothing, except that I've had several mistresses give me the same line once or twice, said Bahorel. Naturally, they didn't specifically say 'professor,' but it was the same idea. Let him be, won't you, said Courfeyrac firmly. Stay out of it, Lesgle said to my cousin under his breath. Why? said Courfeyrac, and he seemed almost angry. It's not right, and I feel that I ought to be free to raise my voice for what I think. Yes, it's a fine republican liberty, in principle, but it's not so charming when applied to you, said Bahorel. Who's talking about me now? said Courfeyrac defensively. It doesn't take all night to ask for an extension for a paper or for some pointers on writing your next dissertation, I said resentfully to Combeferre. You ought to have somebody tell you once in a while how annoying you are—it would deflate your head, said Bahorel to Courfeyrac. You're not exactly an angel yourself, Courfeyrac replied, glaring back. Gentlemen, _parbleu_, said Joly weakly from his corner table. Don't bother, said Lesgle, rolling his eyes. They've begun now, they'll be at it for a while. What are you implying, exactly, Combeferre said, and he gave me a withering look. Do I have to say it aloud? I said haughtily. You're so arrogant, said Combeferre, shaking his head in disgust. You're so arrogant! Courfeyrac was shouting at Bahorel. Look who's talking! bellowed Bahorel. Oh dear, said Prouvaire mournfully, holding his head in his hands. Won't you all just shut up, said Feuilly, and he went back to making a brave attempt at reading his book.

Despite all the explanations that followed, the licking of wounds, the tentative, suspicious peace-making, bitter feelings were still circulating among us by the onset of spring. Consequently, the next official meeting would not take place for another four weeks after that first brawl, and we had just begun to settle into routines again when the next disaster hit—my cousin brought his new protégé to the back room. Suffice to say, the fellow was an intolerable fool, spouting some infernal ideas about the glory of Buonaparté and how the enslavement of others is the highest ideal, which we should worship as proud Frenchmen. This speechifying was insufferable enough to give Combeferre sufficient provocation to sing, which signified that it was quite insufferable indeed.

By the time summer arrived, after a Mayday involving a serious argument between Lesgle and Feuilly in which they peevishly refused to talk to one another for nearly two weeks, after Bahorel had asked my cousin innumerable times if he was fucking the new boy, after that miserable typographer had held Combeferre's attention for longer than I could, we had all had about enough of each other's company. In the heady, hot month of July, on the feast-day of St. Nazarius, 9 Thermidor Year XXXVII, Les Amis de l'A B C officially un-declared itself a fraternity.

I moved in with my cousin on the eighth day of September, and they told me five days later that Combeferre had left Paris to join his father's practice back in Lyon. He's going to be married, or so they say, Courfeyrac said to me one evening as I was buried in fourteenth-century canon law texts. Married to whom? I said, teeth clenched a little. Surely not to his childhood sweetheart, said he, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He is free, I replied angrily. I told him so, and he knows it well enough, so don't dare tease me about it. I shouldn't dare, replied my cousin, except that I know you, and I know him, and I know you'd never set him free, not even if he wanted to be, which he doesn't, and _ma foi_, it simply makes precious little sense to me why you'd be willing to give up on something like love. Something like love, I repeated. He just shook his head, gesturing at the embroideries piled on the floorboards beside my bed, saying, If you'd really stopped loving him, you'd've burnt those horrid things. Burn them? I said, a little lost. I'd rather die.

Later that week I found myself back in the little room on the second floor of Corinthe just after lunchtime, taking notes in my copy of _Le Mariage de Figaro_, when that drunkard stumbled up the stairs. Hallo, he said. Hn, I said. May I…? says he. I didn't answer, only underlined a passage and wrote the word _ironie_ in the margin. He collapsed in the chair to my left, breathing heavy, toxic sighs in my ear. After several minutes of watching me write, he said softly, Your hand is beautiful. How kind, I replied in my coldest voice. My mother taught me to write like a gentleman. You do her proud, he answered, but I meant your hand, not your handwriting. I drew away from him slightly, and replied bitterly, I suppose that does her proud as well. He was silent for a moment, and finally said, Enjolras? What, I said, and continued my busy scribbling. Do you hate me? says he. Hate you, says I, well, I'd put it less mildly. I loathe you. That's ungenerous of you, he replied, scratching the back of his neck in mild consternation. Mm, I said. Where's all your friends? he said. Haven't seen 'em around lately. They're not my friends, I said, at least not right now. Not even Combeferre? he asked with feigned innocence. I glared at him, and snapped, That's not your concern. He smiled, an abhorrent expression on such a face as his, and he said sweetly, It is most surely my concern. How's that, pray tell? I replied, half out of my seat in indignation. Well, because I love you, of course, says he, and he looked almost surprised that I had to ask. Shut up, I said, and I stood to leave. Don't go, he said, and he moved to intercept me. Don't touch me, I said, my voice sounding shrill in my own ears. He took hold of my wrists, one in each hand, and pleaded, Don't go, Enjolras. Take your hands off me, I snarled. I can't be Combeferre, he said quickly, his words stumbling over themselves, but if you'd give me a chance, I could at least—! I twisted in his grip, half-mad. Don't struggle so, he said gently. I looked him straight in the eye and spit full in his face. He released me, slowly, and I believe I hurt the creature with that saliva more than I could have with my fist. Don't ever touch me again, so long as we both live, I whispered. I left him that way, standing there in a strange kind of stupor, his hands still grasping mechanically for mine.

A month, two days and twelve hours later, I was walking towards my lecture hall when I saw him, Combeferre, that is, standing in the rain with Joly on a street corner near the Sorbonne, laughing gently as Joly attempted to shield himself from the weather with a Republican pamphlet. Joly seemed to be saying something when he suddenly glanced over Combeferre's shoulder and spotted me across the street. He squinted, smiled in a sickly sort of way, and waved, and Combeferre turned to look as well. He wiped his glasses on his waistcoat, then gave me a hard look through them before he recognized me, and finally he smiled, a smile no less sickly than Joly's had been. I can't remember whether I smiled in return, but I do remember that I kept walking, and didn't slow my pace until I was standing before the doors of Blondeau's lecture hall. I was saved from being crossed off the roll by mere seconds.

You said he had left Paris, I said accusingly to Courfeyrac that evening. That was what I heard, says he. Besides, it was better for you to think that than to obsess about him day and night, wasn't it? You bastard, I growled, you were trying to make me jealous, trying to make me change my mind about things. And it worked, didn't it, he said calmly.

I left a scrap of a note with Combeferre's landlady the next morning:

É. J. C.—

Meet me in the Panthéon, beside the tomb of Rousseau. This evening, after vespers.

Yours.

M. A. E.

A half hour and three minutes after nineteen hours, and he was staring at me through the gloom of the crypt, dust motes floating between us in the dirty lamplight. You wanted to see me, he said. He looked thinner than I had remembered, his face a little more drawn and his smile put away for the occasion, but his hair was precisely the same, catching the lamplight in its wild crown of thorns. I wanted to see you, I echoed. And you came. Of course I did, he said. He gave me a strange look, squinting through his spectacles. I'm glad, I said. What do you want, Enjolras, he said firmly, almost impatient. I laughed softly, and replied, What do you think. I think you want to waste my time, he said crossly. No such thing, I said, then added, I want to move back into my flat. _Your_ flat? he said. You haven't got one, to my knowledge, and what's that got to do with me? I love you, I said. Don't tease, he said with a sigh. If you've nothing else to say, I have things that need doing. I grabbed him by the shoulder and murmured, Don't you even understand what I'm saying? I understand very well, he replied, surprised. I'm not a fool, Enjolras. But I won't have it. You won't have what? I said. I won't have you back, he explained matter-of-factly. Didn't you catch that the first time? But why not? I asked, shocked. A man burned doesn't return to the fire, he said, shrugging out of my grip. Combeferre, I have some pride left, I said sharply. I won't beg you. Good, he replied, and turned to go, adding, It'll make things easier that way.

It's just as well, _mamour_, Courfeyrac told me that evening at supper. You wanted it too much—it's just not healthy, you know. Spare me, Courfeyrac, I said brutally. Look, 's no need to bite off my head, he replied with a shrug. He'll come around, you know, and if you think he really means it, you don't know him very well. When I didn't answer, he added, Do you want me to talk to him? That's the last thing I want, I replied. I need your help like I need a hole in my head. Suit yourself, says he.

The day after All Saints' Day, I donned my best suit and went to Necker Hospital. I hated that place, its sterile, unnatural cleanness, the crying children who limped down the hallways on twisted limbs, the exhaustion written on the forehead of every intern. Nevertheless, I knew he would be there.

I literally crashed into Joly in the hallway, and the massive pile of linens that he had been carrying came tumbling down between us, slithering over the polished wood floor. Watch it! he cried at the moment of contact, but when he looked up from the mess on the floor and met my eyes, he burst into a smile instead. Enjolras! you look fine, he said, shaking my hand vigorously before kneeling down to begin cleaning up. I don't feel so fine, I replied as I began to help him. They said you were preparing to go back to the provinces to work for your father, he said. That's why I was surprised to see you. He gave me a scrutinizing look. _Parbleu_, if you don't look better than fine! he said, shaking his head. It's been too long, really, Enjolras. I know, I said. How are your studies going? Oh, like always, he said with a shrug and a smile. The teaching hospital's really an awful place, and I'm terrified of the contagions that get passed around here, but I suppose it's fine experience. Is Combeferre on shift today? I asked, already knowing the answer. He saw through me immediately, and said coyly, Have you really forgotten his schedule so quickly? No, I replied, but I just thought I'd ask, simply for the sake of politeness. He's in surgery this afternoon, he said. I really don't envy him…The poor man takes the work here very hard, I fear. It's bad enough to see people die every day without the ability to do anything about it, but to watch children die every day… He shook his head, and added, But you're not here to talk to him about his work, I take it. No, far from it, I said. He doesn't speak of you much, but I know he thinks about you all the time, he said, watching me carefully. His eyes are always far away. I can't say I'm displeased to hear it, I said. He stood, balancing his load once more, and said, You're welcome to wait for him in the lobby, but those wretched nurses won't let you get any closer to the operating rooms—actually, I'm surprised you made it this far without being detected by the old hags. It's all right, I replied, I'll wait wherever they want…I'll wait forever. It was good seeing you, he said over his shoulder as he continued down the hallway, and if you see the others, tell them Bossuet and I would be tickled to find ourselves once again in the back room at the Musain, what with the excitement brewing lately in the streets. I'll consider it, I said.

Combeferre emerged some two hours and four minutes later, as I was poring over a newspaper. What are you doing here, he said. Reading about the latest outrages perpetrated by M. de Polignac, I said morosely. Oh, he said, and he pulled on his frock coat. You didn't come to see me, then, he added as he adjusted the cuffs. I gave a bitter smile, and replied, No indeed, I simply enjoy the atmosphere in children's hospices. Well, I don't, he said tiredly. Can we go? If I can take you out for coffee, I said, standing. He gave me a stripped look, and said, Coffee sounds so good right now that I think I'd take you up on that even if you were de Polignac himself.

Joly mentioned to me the possibility of reviving the Amis, I said casually after we had been chatting guardedly over coffee for fifteen minutes or so. Did he? he said. He mentioned it to me as well. What did you tell him? I asked. I told him it would depend on what you said, you being the grand high chief and all, he replied calmly. You said that? I said with a laugh. I had to bite my lip to say it with a straight face, but yes, I did, he said, his old smile creeping into his voice. Well, I think it's a tremendous idea, I said. You would, naturally, he said, still smiling. Haven't you missed me at all, Combeferre? I asked, a touch sheepishly. More than you know, he said, staring down at his sinewy surgeon's hands where they lay folded on the tabletop. He glanced up and added, Do you remember the first time I sent you one of those gypsy embroideries? Of course, I said. I can't forget the way I wrote on the package, he said, lost in thought. I wrote PVERVM FLAVVM, _blond boy_, the accusative, when it should have been the dative, _puero flavo_. It's very unromantic of you to remember the Latin better than you remember the gift itself, I said brusquely. He smiled, and said quietly, I should like to do it all over again, in proper Latin this time around. In proper Latin, naturally, I said, more gently now, and recited: _Te amabam_, _te amo_, _te amabo_. You're supposed to add the year, he teased. Like this: _Te amo/1829_. And when 1830 comes? I said. _Te amabo/1830_, he said.

_Je t'aime/1830._

Well, July always did tend to be a month full of disappointments.

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	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry, no footnotes for this one. XD

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_Je t'aime/1831._

I awoke slowly one morning and realized that I simply could not remember the date. Combeferre's shallow breaths eased in and out beside my ear, and I glanced at him through bleary eyes. He had aged, imperceptibly almost, over the past decade, the dark circles beneath his eyes growing more pronounced, the smile lines creasing deeper into his skin. His hair had grayed lightly after the past summer, after the grave injuries and the crushing heartbreak of a successful barricade but a failed revolution. He had saved my life then, pieced my shattered collarbone back together like a puzzle and dug the bullet out of my thigh, fed me on laudanum. I watched his eyelashes shudder as he slept, heard him groan, Nnnno…, and I rolled onto my back, suddenly trembling.

On the day before Ascension Thursday, that is to say, Rogation Wednesday, I ducked into the Musain and out of a late afternoon rain shower to find only Lesgle, Joly, and that drunkard in attendance. Lesgle was just preparing to throw a dart at the map of the French Republic as I walked in, and he must have thought better of it when he saw my frosty expression. Don't smoke in here with the windows closed, for God's sake, I said irritably. How many times must I tell you? And a good afternoon to you, Enjolras, said Lesgle indulgently, snuffing out his cigarette on the tabletop. Are you going home for summer? Joly asked me. I never go home, I responded, settling at a table apart from them. I could swear the drunkard gave me a smoldering look from his corner. I meant to Courfeyrac's home, said Joly. No, I'm not going home, I replied. How's Combeferre? Joly resumed. I've seen much less of him this semester, with us being in different dissection laboratory sessions. He is well, I said simply, and took out my inkwell and my blotter. Is there a meeting tonight? Lesgle said. If anyone comes, there will be, I replied, smoothing out a kink in my quill pen, and if no-one comes, there won't be. Just my luck, said Lesgle. And I had planned on skipping tonight. It's no use skipping now, said Joly. You'll just get wet outside and develop pneumonia. No, that's what would happen to you, replied Lesgle with a grin. If it were me, I'd most likely slip on the sidewalk and break a leg. I was just reading the same sentence for the fifth time when a knocking at the window interrupted my thoughts yet again. Lesgle, who was closest, wrenched it open with some difficulty, pausing to suck a splinter from his unfortunate thumb. Courfeyrac poked his disheveled head through the crack. Hallo, everyone, he said. Hallo, Enjolras. Is anyone going to Les Halles this afternoon? Not this afternoon, said Joly. It's too far, in this weather. What's going on in Les Halles, anyway, said Lesgle. We were just there, at Corinthe, last week—what could have possibly become more fascinating about the Marais since then? Oh bother you, said Courfeyrac with an impish grin. Feuilly's a father now, since last night, you know? The baby came? said Joly. Boy or girl? said Lesgle. When will he be back at meetings? I said, without looking up from my papers. You're impossible, said Courfeyrac to me, rolling his eyes, and added, It's a son.

The feast of Saint Sylvestre marked the end of the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred Thirty-One. Prouvaire was standing framed in our window when I got home from class; he was out on the balcony, leaning his weight against the creaky railing, singing the Queen of the Night aria from _The Magic Flute_ two octaves below its intended range. What are you doing here, I said, dropping my books on my desk with a loud thump. Ah! he cried, spinning around. When he recognized me, he added breathlessly, Gods, Marci. You almost sent me off the balcony there. If you had been singing _Tosca_ it would have seemed fitting, I said flatly. I'll ask again: what are you doing here. Looking for Étienne, he said awkwardly. Can't you tell that he's not here? I said, loosening my cravat. I had noticed, he replied, hesitating between coming back inside from the balcony and remaining where he was. So? I said. I thought maybe if I waited for a while, he'd come by, says he. He's with his dying children today, I said. I wouldn't expect him back until suppertime. Oh, he said. Just then, the key scraped in the lock behind me. It's open already, I called. Oh, thanks, said Combeferre, ducking inside. When did you get home? Just now, I replied. Oh, you are home after all, said Prouvaire with noticeable relief. Oh? said Combeferre, turning. What are you doing here? Did they let you off early for the holiday? I asked. Well, Sister Marie-Madeleine told me to go, Combeferre said, shrugging. The professor wasn't going to give lecture today, and she said the sisters could care for the children on their own. I needed to give you something, said Prouvaire. Oh? said Combeferre. Here, said Prouvaire, and he pressed a paper into Combeferre's hand. Is that all? said Combeferre. Read it, said Prouvaire insistently. Well, read it, by all things holy, I said. Combeferre leveled a look first at Prouvaire, then at me, and unfolded the paper, adjusting his spectacles. His eyes followed the lines quickly, flicking across the page and back several times before stopping mid-line and glancing up at Prouvaire. Ha ha! he said, a sharp sort of laugh, and added, Where did you get this—Joly, maybe? You've guessed it, said Prouvaire with a small smile. What is it? I said impatiently. Nothing, Enjolras, don't worry yourself, said Combeferre, petting my head gently. How do you mean, "nothing, Enjolras"? I said, irritated. Don't you "nothing, Enjolras" me. Nothing, Enjolras, said Combeferre again, smiling into the folds of his cravat. Would you like some tea, Jehan? Yes, thanks, said Prouvaire, shooting me a nervous glance. Don't worry about him, said Combeferre as he followed the other's gaze. He's harmless, really. Invisible, really, I replied sulkily. I live here, but nobody realizes that I'm in the room, they just go about their business without noticing me. Oh, hush, said Combeferre, and he added, With milk as always, Jehan? Yes, please, said Prouvaire. Are you two going to Courfeyrac's party tonight? No, I said firmly, even as Combeferre was saying, Well, perhaps. We exchanged a look, and I said pointedly, Courfeyrac asked us to come, of course, but I'm not convinced that we couldn't find a more profitable way to spend the evening. Well, there's no question of that, said Prouvaire, blushing when he noticed the way I was looking at Combeferre. No indeed, said Combeferre lightly, biting back a smile as he poured the hot water. There's a million things better than waking up on the first of January sprawled half-naked on Courfeyrac's balcony without very clear memories of the night before. Does that happen to you very often? said Prouvaire, wide-eyed. Not especially often, Combeferre answered, shooting me an amused look. No more than once a year, at any rate, I added dryly. I haven't decided whether I ought to go, said Prouvaire. You oughtn't, said Combeferre, laughing. You, Jehan, among those heathens? Don't go, _mami_. They'll eat you alive. You underestimate me, Étienne, said Prouvaire, and he even seemed a bit offended. I'm not so innocent as that. You're not? said Combeferre. No indeed, said Prouvaire. No? said Combeferre, giving him a look from over the rim of his spectacles. No, I say, said Prouvaire insistently. _Ma foi_, I'm no virgin. I raised my eyebrows but held my tongue, and Combeferre just smiled his usual smile. Don't give me that smile, Étienne, said Prouvaire, blushing again. I know what you're thinking. What, then, am I thinking? said Combeferre, who never that smile slip for one instant. Oh, forget it, mumbled Prouvaire into his teacup.

I thought he'd never leave, I said to Combeferre after Prouvaire had gone. You're awful, really, he replied. Is that all you were thinking about the entire time he was sitting here—how soon you could kick him out? Oh, for pity's sake, I said, and I kissed him hard, backing him up against his desk. Surprised, he reached up to grab hold of my shoulder to steady himself. Aren't you going to loosen your cravat, I murmured against his lips, or do I have to do all the work? Hm? he said, blinking behind his spectacles, dazed, then said, Oh. Oh, I suppose so. I didn't expect you home until later, I said, easing those spectacles off, but I'm glad you're here anyhow. You're restless today, Enjolras, he said. That's not the appropriate word for it, I replied fiercely as I ran my lips down his neck and over his exposed collarbone. Hum, he said softly, digging his fingers into my hair, I suppose not. He was silent for a moment, and finally he said, I love you, you know? Yes, I believe I recall you saying something about it at some point in the not-so-distant past, I replied in between kisses. Oh, did I? he murmured. Well then, I won't bore you by repeating myself. Oh, I don't mind, I said, but I can imagine that you could find a better use for your mouth. Oh, assuredly, says he.

You remember the first time we were together? he said later that night as we reclined on Courfeyrac's balcony, half-drunk and nearly half-naked. Together? I said. Together, as in, together, he replied meaningfully. Oh, I said, then added, Not really, no—nothing except that it was the first time. I recall that you were in pain, he said, and made an odd grimace. That's chiefly what I remember. You're really quite depressive, I said, burying my face into his hair. Anyone else would remember an event like that as beautiful and perfect, even if it was wretched at the time—you do everything backwards, you. I'm not depressive, he said with a laugh. It _was_ painful, wasn't it? Now that you force me to think about it, it may have been, I responded indifferently. Are you two going to stay out there all night? said Courfeyrac, poking his head out the window. It's raining, can't you tell? You'll catch your death out there from the rain, Étienne, you know that, Joly added from within. You've a right to risk your own life, but would you play so carelessly with Enjolras's? Oh, shut up, said Combeferre good-naturedly. Your cigarette smoke stifles me, I said to my cousin. I came out to catch one little lungful of fresh air. Or to debauch Combeferre, said Courfeyrac, and he grinned wolfishly, adding, You're welcome to do as you like, but there are better places to do it than my balcony—my neighbors already think I run a brothel of male mollies here. I beg you not to add to my poor reputation, _mamour_. Do you honestly think that I could give you a more salacious reputation than the one you already enjoy? I replied, giving him a spiteful look over my shoulder. Are your neighbors to be blamed for thinking such things when they're always seeing handsome young fellows over here at all hours of the night? Is it my fault if all my friends are just as handsome as I am? says Courfeyrac, preening in the reflection of the window's glass. Please spare us, _mon vieux_, said Lesgle from over his shoulder. Not everyone can handle such dazzling beauty in one face—you wouldn't want us to end up like Semele, would you, perishing in bolts of lightning and heavenly fire? Well, it looks like they're determined to follow us wherever we go, said Combeferre to me. We may as well go back in. Happy Eighteen-Thirty-Two, everyone! said Courfeyrac, clapping an arm around my shoulders as we climbed back through the window into his flat. And don't track mud on my floors, Enjolras. I'm not, I retorted. I wonder what this year'll be like, said Joly, watching the champagne swirl in his glass. Good, I hope, said Prouvaire softly from the divan where he was writing something on his cuff. Good, repeated Combeferre with more certainty. To Eighteen-Thirty-Two! said Courfeyrac, bubbling over with laughter as he raised his glass. To Eighteen-Thirty-Two, we repeated. To love, said Combeferre. I'll second that, said Prouvaire. To health, said Joly. To long life, I said. Or at least to tomorrow, said Lesgle, laughing. To children, said Combeferre, grinning at Feuilly. To Poland, Feuilly shot back. And to the revolution! yelled Courfeyrac at the top of his lungs. To the revolution, we cried, and drank deeply.

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	7. Chapter 7

A/N: 1832: Montaigne's toe is a tradition for Sorbonne students. The statue of Montaigne is sitting facing the Sorbonne, and you're supposed to rub his toe to have good luck on your exams (I'm not sure if that statue was even there at that time period, but it was always something I could see Courfeyrac doing…XD). _La Mort le roi Artu_ is the thirteenth-century Old French poem describing the fall of the Arthurian kingdom and the death of all the knights of the Round Table. _La Chanson de Roland_ is a militaristic and very bloody Old French poem written down around 1100 (but intended to be sung aloud), and is a sort of national epic for the French, telling the story of the massacre of Charlemagne's army in the Pyrenées (the main characters being the three best warriors in the rear guard: the proud leader Roland, his more sensible friend Olivier, and the eccentric warrior-bishop Turpin).

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_Je t'aime/1832._

Life isn't fair, said Feuilly to me the day before the kalendes of April, around noon, as we were walking past Saint-Merri towards his shop on the rue du Temple. Why's that? said I. Oh, nothing in particular, he said. Just that it's something I found worth pointing out. Very sage of you, I replied, nodding. Very sage, he repeated, then said, Enjolras, d'you think I'd've made a good lawyer? Perhaps a better philosopher, I said. I'll leave that to Combeferre, he said, wiping his palms on his workingman's frock. I'm not much gifted in the ways of the abstract. An engineer, then, I said. Mayh'p, he said. Let me ask you something, Feuilly, I said. What do you plan to do with your son—pardon, what's his name? Jean-Jacques, he said. Pleasant, like Rousseau, I said. Yes, well, what do you plan to do with little Jean-Jacques, once he's old enough to do anything with? How d'you mean? says he. Well, says I, are you going to send him to schooling, or...? How can that be, Enjolras, he said, giving me a reproving look. I just finished telling you that life isn't fair, and some little voice whispering in my ear tells me that little Jean-Jacques won't be found among the ranks of rich little boarding-school boys. No offense, of course. None taken, I said. I wasn't a rich little boarding-school boy anyhow—I had a tutor. All the worse, he said. You can call me a rich brat all you like, I said with some irritation, and you wouldn't be far off, but pray don't. I feel bad enough about it without your saying so. Well then, he said, and he scratched the back of his neck, deep in thought. I suppose I'll just teach him to read and write, same's happened to me, except he's luckier than I was, in having someone who'll be there to teach him these things. Mm, I said. Either way, his mother'll've no less for him, he said. She's intent that he do something with his life. That is best, I said, then added, Do you know that I have never met your wife in all the years that we have known each other? That's no surprise to me, he said, giving me a look. You've never been much interested in women, Enjolras. She's not a woman, though, I said. She's your wife. Eh oh, he said with amusement, am I glad that you never had the intention of getting married someday! Women would flee you. I wish they would, I replied morosely. I imagine Combeferre has rather the same problem, you achingly unavailable bachelors, he said, grinning. Heh! he does have the same problem, I replied, smiling vaguely, but as soon as he pulls out his books on invertebrate anatomy and on the geology of the Loire river valley, the women are gone in a puff of smoke. Would that I had that kind of power over them. He laughed broadly, and said, Oh, women. Hum, women, I replied. I never really knew one, to tell you the truth, apart from my aunt, who belongs more to the breed of harpy than that of woman. We walked for a few moments in silence, then finally I turned to him, seized suddenly with curiosity, and said, Feuilly, do you love your wife? Do you love your lover? he replied. More than my life, I said. More than your revolution? he said. It's cruel to ask that, I replied quietly. Even he never asks that. Because he doesn't want to hear the answer, he said. And you don't want to have to say it aloud. And that's how it is with me and my wife. But your son? I said. No, not my son, he said. My son before everything else—my son before my fatherland. I should be disappointed to hear you say such a thing, I said sternly, but I refuse to think less of you for it. Good, said Feuilly, almost fierce in his pride. Good, because I'm not sorry I said it.

I came upon Courfeyrac late in the afternoon of the second day of the third week in May. He was rather noticeable, standing with his back to the Sorbonne's façade, rubbing his palm frantically back and forth over the bronze foot of the statue of Montaigne, his lips murmuring soundless prayers. What are you doing, I might ask, I said, coming up behind him. Can't you see? he said. I see that you're rubbing Montaigne's foot as if you would rub it right off, I replied. It'll bring me luck on exams, he said, giving me a scornful look. Didn't you know that Montaigne's foot was good luck? Every wet-nosed first-year student knows that. Oh, I know the tradition, I said curtly, but it's going to take a great deal more than rubbing the toes of a dead monarchist to get you good marks. Well, _you_ might discriminate your lucky statues on the basis of political party, but I'm well past that stage now, he said. Now the situation is desperate. Yes, because you haven't cracked a book all term, I replied haughtily. Eh no, _parbleu_! he said, horrified. Studying is bad for your health, _mamour_, didn't anyone ever tell you that? You sound like Joly, but possibly even more pathetic, I said. Ah well, everyone has their own methods of preparation, he replied with a shrug, and returned to his rubbing. It's all right, once these exams are over, I'll be free for another summer. Well, you'll survive, I'm sure, I said. You always manage to do so, somehow. I took him by the arm, and added, Come on, let's go eat. He'll still be here when you get back, he's not going anywhere any time soon.

Funerals always come upon one quickly. It was hardly the fifth of June before I found myself at a funeral. My best black suit was stifling in the muggy heat of the morning, and the rain drizzling on it was probably not the best thing I could have done for the fabric, but Combeferre told me that it looked striking on me, and I had half a mind to believe him. We were standing packed shoulder to shoulder in the crowd when the hearse passed by in a cloud of lilies and black crepe, drawn by four fabulously white horses. I could feel Combeferre's hand gripping mine, and I knew that he could smell the gunpowder that had remained sticking to my skin from the provisioning I had been doing in the early hours of that morning. I myself had the impression that he smelled faintly of sandalwood, but only for a moment, and then it was gone in the heavy summer breeze. It could well have been nothing more than my imagination, or an attack of déjà vu.

The barricade was built by evening.

The torchlight cast an orange glow against Prouvaire's profile as he sat near the crest of the barricade, reciting to an avid audience about an hour after sunset. First it had been Byron, then Hugo, and he was finishing with Ovid. I had just come out of the wineshop with an armful of rifles when he said, What'll I do next, gentlemen? Something in plain French, if you please, said Courfeyrac. My brain can't wrap itself around Latin in such a time and place. Something martial, said Bahorel gruffly from the other side of the barricade where he was sharpening a bayonet. The last thing I want to hear about is happy times past when I'm preparing to ram a blade into a man's stomach. All right, said Prouvaire uncertainly. What did you have in mind? _La Mort le roi Artu_, said Joly. That would not have a very positive effect on morale, I said, considering the ending. _La Chanson de Roland_, said Combeferre, glancing up from his book, and he began in a steady sort of chant:

_Rollant est proz e Oliver est sage;_

_Ambedui unt merveillus vassalage:_

_Puis que il sunt as chevals e as armes,_

_Ja pur murir n'eschiverunt bataille._

Prouvaire laughed softly, and said, I'm not sure that I could make it through the whole of the poem, but it would certainly be appropriate. He glanced at me, and said, You approve, certainly, Marcelin? Do what you like, I replied. I'm going to do some reconnaissance. Courfeyrac was laughing as I walked away, and he cried after me, _Holà_, Roland—if Combeferre gets to be your Olivier, I get to be your Turpin! As you will, I called back, adding, You'd be a great help to me if you only knew how to rally troops as well as Turpin could. Prouvaire leapt up onto the topmost reaches of the barricade, terrifying in the ghostly light of the torch, and cried with a fearsome burst of energy:

_D'altre part est l'arcevesques Turpin:_

_Sun cheval broche e muntet un lariz,_

_Franceis apelat, un sermun lur ad dit:_

_'Seignurs baruns, Carles nus laissat ci;_

_Pur nostre rei devum nus ben murir—_

No Royalist sentiment in this barricade! cried Courfeyrac with a explosive laugh, flinging his hat at Prouvaire. I just shook my head with a sigh, and slipped out the rue Mondétour.

At exactly 23h43, Joly glanced up at me in my redoubt, and said, for perhaps the third time that evening: Enjolras, aren't you afraid of catching cold sitting up there unprotected in the rain? It's the least of my concerns at the moment, I assure you, I replied dryly. You're sure you don't want a coat, or something? he persisted. Ah, let him alone, won't you, said Lesgle. The man's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Just making sure, said Joly defensively. He's not annoyed—are you annoyed, Enjolras? No, I said, becoming more and more annoyed with each passing second. Feuilly yelled to me from the doorway of Corinthe, _Holà_, Enjolras, where're the cartridges I brought in this afternoon? On the table in the kitchen, I yelled back. That's cheating, Courfeyrac said suddenly. He was sitting in a circle of students from the Polytechnique, and they had been dividing their attention between managing their hand of cards and cleaning the barrels of their muskets. I glanced over just in time to see my cousin throw his cards in disgust and repeat, Cheating, _pardieu_! Courfeyrac, I called down to him, would you be so kind as to go and make sure Combeferre doesn't need any help with the bandages? You're putting me on bandage duty? Courfeyrac replied incredulously. I promise to behave, I swear, just anything but bandages. What's wrong with bandages? I said. You could well be benefiting from one of them if you keep irritating me down there with your little card games. Yes, certainly, my lord, he said, just sit up there in your high pulpit and deliver your orders. I obey. Citizen, I said with an icy ferocity, either do your duty or get out. All right, all right, he grumbled as he stood and headed towards the wineshop, but, halfway there, he stopped suddenly and, out of some sort of _esprit d'escalier_, he added slowly, But you know, _mamour_, I'm not Grantaire. You can't crush me under your iron fist the way you do him.

The death of J. Prouvaire put Combeferre into an odd mood.

A half-hour after the old man had taken the spy away, I passed through the gutted wineshop and caught sight of Combeferre bending over the table of corpses, in the same posture as he might have used with the wounded lying in the kitchen. Combeferre, there you are, I said, coming up behind him. I glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was gently folding Gavroche's fragile hands across his chest. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his little wooden rosary, the one he had once told me had been given to him at his first communion, and wrapped the child's stiff fingers around it. Gazing down at his work, he said softly, I'm always the one who has to pick up the bodies of dead children—close their tired eyes, arrange their mangled little limbs, send them off to sleep. It's a rotten lot, but it's got to be someone's. They'll pay for this, I replied. They won't, he said wearily. They won't, because there is no 'they.' There is only 'us,' all of us, _mon cher_, on both sides of that infernal pile of secondhand furniture that you call a barricade, and we are responsible, all of us. I just stared at him, and he turned slowly and walked to the exit of the wineshop, pausing for a moment in the doorway, framed in the early morning light, leaning against the bullet-riddled doorpost. He looked frail, ten years older than he was, slumped there gazing out at a group of young workers having an animated discussion in the shadow of the barricade. Combeferre, I said. He turned his head halfway, enough to indicate that he was listening. You should have left, I said, back when you still could. How can you say that, he replied in an extraordinarily odd voice, half magnanimous martyr, half shipwrecked soul. This place doesn't suit you, I said. I knew it would not—it's why I didn't ask you to come with me in 1830. And see how successful you were in 1830 without me, he said dully. Death for the Republic, and almost death for you, too. This time, the defeat will be decisive, I replied quietly. Which is why I need to be here, he said, and he turned back to watching the workers' conversation. You won't die without me, I forbid it. I examined him carefully, expecting him to say more, to cry, to explode, but he had fallen into a profound silence, one would almost say a reverie, or a coma. Those had been the last words we would ever exchange.

At quarter past eleven hours, Combeferre fell.

_Pardieu_, this story has rambled on quite long enough. Twenty-five years is an awkward period, for narrative purposes. It's not long enough to be epic, and not brief enough to be abruptly touching. Moreover, I can't help but feel that I've made a mess of its narration. After all, it's not enough, I should say, to recall the ridiculously affective things that I've spent the last three-quarters of a second recalling. It's childish to think of such petty things, of galettes des rois, of gypsy embroideries and New Year's Eve parties and poor Latin grammar, and I think that if anything could ever be considered a monumental waste of time, it would be these twenty-five years that were given to me. But then again, the view from behind a billiards table, beside a shameless drunkard, staring down the barrels of royalist rifles, is not exactly the view from the top of a barricade. It's inevitable that I should be a touch disillusioned, it's well within my rights. And yet...There's almost something to be said for galettes des rois. Not that I would advocate building my life around such a meaningless object, if I were given another twenty-five years to build, but, well, how to explain it? I suppose it should suffice to say that, even if I have always had trouble understanding how such a clutter of little details can, over time, coagulate into the highly coherent abstraction we call a life, there's still some beauty to be had in those details, in a galette des rois, in Montaigne's toe, a Latin accusative, a second-rate theatre production in a seedy establishment in a sweltering heat wave, even a God-forsaken typographer.

Bah, philosophy of life be damned. Combeferre would have said it better anyway.

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